I am a stranger in a familiar land. Some pass me with narrowed accusing eyes; others pass with bewilderment while they struggle to remember which dream I am from.
As I reach out with this relentless fever inside my fingers, I touch everything in reach. The boy’s old baseball mitt, his spelling bee trophy, his father’s laugh, his mother’s smile.
I touch them all, though fleetingly.
It’s not perfect, what I do; I have hurt before. But at least I keep on reaching out with my blackened wet fingers to touch and spread this tainted hope.
mortiflying 